


Oven Warm

by RedThePear



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedThePear/pseuds/RedThePear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in Paris where Valjean is a baker and Javert a seller in a law-specialized bookshop. Valjean discovers one morning that he is regularly observed during his work by a strange man looking like a tiger...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting/Rencontrer

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language, if I make any errors please tell me :)

Jean Valjean sighed with satisfaction as he put the last batch of bread in the oven and slammed the door shut. He shook the flour off his white apron and rough hands and headed for his working table. Behind him the cloud of fine white dust glimmered faintly in the early morning light.

It had been a few years since Valjean had opened his Small bakery in the Marais. After years of unstability and insecurity, the ageing man finally had found a place where he could stay and work calmly and peacefully. He had settled down with his daughter and had quietly enjoyed the expérience, unusual for him, that was an ordinary life.

This morning was a beautiful one, and Valjean took his time to appreciate the square of cold blue sky that the workshop’s small window displayed. He strechted his muscular arms with a groan before taking care of a future batch of small sésame buns. Completely absorbed in his work –or daydreaming- the baker did not notice the slight shading of the ray of light.

Valjean placed his Platter to bake and decided to stay a little by the heat of his oven. Indeed, he did not use anything to fight the winter cold in his workshop. His gaze was attracted a second time by the window when he gasped and violently collided with his work table, raising a hurricane of flour.

Instead of the blue sky a face had appeared in the square of the window. A féline, sharply cut face framed by bushy sideburns. A tiger’s face that strangely turned Bright red at Jean’s gaze. The baker and the stranger exchanged a puzzled glance, a flash between blue and steel-grey eyes, and the tiger disappeared as he had arrived.

Valjean remained mute from surprise a few moments, and mechanically returned to his work table. He tousled his hair full of flour and was about to contiue his work when the chime of the shop doorbell rang. Rushing to the desk, he immediatlely recognized his client.

-Hello, said the tiger-like man.  
-What would you wish, Monsieur ?  
-I don’t know.  
-Well, would you like some time to choose, then. Prenez votre temps, the customers at this hour are scarce.  
-I don’t have the time, I have to head to work. Could you choose something for me ?  
This strange and so direct answer added to the peculiar, if not unpleasant, behavior of the stranger. The baker was constantly getting more confused about the man.

He nevertheless granted an amiable smile to the tiger, before starting his search.  
-Is Monsieur looking for something to eat at work ?  
-Yes, anything quick to eat would be fine.  
Valjean observed his customer while he hesitated between two products. He seemed younger than he, in his early fifties perhaps. Dressed in sober and somber clothes, well-cut but rather worn, his long haïr pulled back in a strict catogan, the man had an aura of authority about him. Jean started to wonder if he really was the blushing observer he had encountered a few minutes ago. 

The stranger was looking at his Watch with anxiety, tapping his foot on the marble-squared floor. The regular rythm was the only noise in the awkward silence. Valjean decided to end the waiting and handed a warm paper bag to his strange customer.  
-Please enjoy, Monsieur, and have a good day !  
The man paid and nodded a small gesture of Farewell.  
-A bientôt.  
He dashed out with his purchase, and Jean had the time to see him stumble beofre disappearing around the street corner. A smile grew on the baker’s face. This « see you later » pleased him. 

The rest of the day went on normally. New customers and regulars started to pour in some time after the tiger-like man’s leave. Jean Valjean let his thoughts wander to other subjects until the visit of one of his best customers, a student named Bahorel.

-You look distracted, Monsieur Jean. Did your daughter have stalker problems recently?  
-Why would my dauger ever have stalker problems ? N’essaie pas de m’effrayer, Bahorel.

The tall and squarely built Young man had an enigmatic and mocking smile before he spoke again.  
-Dans ce cas… What could it be ? A romantic encounter ? There are some charming people around here…  
Valjean chuckled. The tiger-like stranger in his gray coat was one of the people he had met that the word « charming » fitted the least.  
-Pas vraiment, non. I simply had a peculiar first client this morning.  
-Peculiar ?  
-Oui, he behaved strangely. Strict-looking man. He seemed to try to repress any possible fantasy in his life. I gave him some when he asked me to choose his oon meal.  
-Did you sneak something into his bag ? You really should stop giving ou free stuff to customers, you know. Ca te ruinera.  
-I like helping others out. Take this and stop arguing..

The baker handed a bg of slightly misshapen biscuits to Bahorel.  
-Come on, Papa Jean, whatdid I just tell you… Oh, almonds. Feuilly loves those. Merci beaucoup, vieil homme !  
-The old man still has your strength and more, jeune insolent.  
-I know, I know… Well, I have to run. Thanks for the biscuits… And watch out for your daughter !  
-Au revoir, Bahorel, said Valjean too late. The cold winter wind gushed into the shop through the open door the student had rushed out of.

Night quickly fell on the Marais and Jean valjean started to get ready to close the bakery. The tiger in the grey winter coat had sneaked into his thoughts once more, and the baker’s head was full of questions.  
« Well, I’ll see him again, I guess. Chaque chose en son temps. »

Taking off his white apron and dusting the white from his arms, hands and head, the baker turned into a kind-looking, well-put man. His pale blue shirt seemed to match, by its color and cheerfulness, his eyes and the square of sky from his workshop.

Jean finally passed on his black coat and proceeded, holding his gloves between his teeth, to close the bakery’s front door. The wind was slicing through his warm winter clothes. The street was desert.  
« Il n’y a pas un chat », remarked he out loud. He left without noticing that he was wrong. There actually was a sort of cat around the street corner. A very big cat. A tiger in a gray winter coat, whose steel-grey eyes restlessly and shyly followed the man as he walked away…


	2. Greeting/Saluer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New apparition of Valjean's mysterious (or not) admirer, and a first interaction between the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typos everywhere… I'll correct them when I have the time! Concerning the parts in French, if any of you need translation, please tell me :)

The next morning was a breathtaking, crispy cold one that the Parisian winter sometimes grants the residents of the City of Lights.  
-Papa, I’ll arrive at the shop at nine, is that alright with you ?  
Valjean left s daughter in the swirls of steam of her coffee mug and went out in the still sleepy streets.

He was immediately dazzled by the brilliant softness of a pink sky flecked with gold in which the silver pepper of stars was faintly glittering. The swirl of colors, he thought, was quite worth the steamy bergamot spirals he had just abandoned, and in which Cosette was probably dreaming away at the moment.  
-Le monde appartient à ceux qui se lèvent tôt, whispered he as he started with a good pace towards his bakery.

The usual first morning batches went into the oven, and the usual rather drowsy Jean went in front of his square of sky and fresh air to get the energy of day. But once there, for the second time in two days, he yelped and violently collided with his work table. A much more efficient, but slightly brusque way to wake up.

The tiger was once again hiding the sky with his sideburns and sharp face and grey eyes. He disappeared of the window frame, but only to crash through the worshop’s door and hurry to help the baker back to his feet, muttering confused apologies. Valjean thanked him with a kind smile and a warm « merci », and the two men found themselves in an awkward silence after the tremendous tumult.

It was the stranger who broke it.  
-…Thank you for yesterday.  
Jean had a surprised look.  
-Ah, but it is nothing at all, Monsieur. I am a baker after all. It’s my job.  
-Is it your job to give out free desserts ?  
-When it is needed, I consider it this way, yes.  
The tiger had an incredule smirk and changed subjects.  
-What was it ?  
-Pardon ?  
-That dessert you gave me. It was light. I liked it.  
-That was a « dune », Monsieur. Like a cream puff, but filled with Chantilly, you see ? This way it’s airy and less stuffing than the usual.  
-Oh. Si vous le dites.  
-You don’t seem to know much about cakes, Monsieur, observed Valjean with an amused smile.  
-I do not.  
Then why did I catch you twice peering at my work ?

The stranger turned once again bright red and started to blurt out a steady flow of incomprehensible talk that seemed to be an explanation. Jean’s smile widened and he laughingly gestured his peculiar customer to stop his blabber.  
-There, there, it’s alright, I shouldn’t have as-  
-I like the way you look when you work.

The only clear sentence the tiger had managed to form had nearly as much effect on the baker as the surprise apparition in the window. His eyes widened and he stayed silent for a few moments that seemed an eternity.

-Pardon, Monsieur ?  
-I-I like the way your work looks. Could you teach me ?  
-…Are you sure you’re saying what you mean ?  
-Yes ! I entirely and completely mean it.

Valjean slightly frowned. The man appeared honest, but his behavior of the moment aroused suspicion. He finally shrugged.  
« Suspicious or not, he’s not dangerous in any way. »  
Jean smiled at him.  
-Well, there’s no problem for me if you want to learn the art of baking. I just wonder if you’d have the time to follow lessons long enough to make notable progress… ?  
The tiger smiled back, a feline grin that reflected a strange mixture of joy and intimidation.  
-I’m sure I’ll find the time ! If it’s for these lessons I swear I’ll find the time… Monsieur.  
He blushed slightly at these words of his and resumed his strict demeanor.  
The baker smirked. This was the same man alright, and he was actually a very endearing one. 

-Very well. Come back whenever you wish, I’ll be ready to start!  
He grasped the tiger’s hands in a vigorous shake. The other man smiled slightly, and Jean drew him in a strong hug and patted his back. He heard a muffled grunt of protest and released him with a laugh.  
-A bientôt, Monsieur…  
-Oui, c’est ça, nodded his customer as he awkwardly and hastily left the shop.

Left alone, Valjean wondered a minute before smacking his forehead in realization.  
-Quel dommage ! I still haven’t learned his name…


	3. Working/Travailler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing viewpoints for a little insight in the life of the tiger-like man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to change a little bit the point of view here… I'll probably do that regularly. I wonder if you like it this way or if you prefer one or another?

It was still dark when an annoyingly loud trill awoke a sleeping tiger. He groaned and rolled over in his thin sheets before stiffly getting up. Blinking drowsily, he shook his thick chestnut-colored mane. His steel-grey gaze had the time to glimpse the culprit of his waking, a bird that flew away immediately, as if scared by those sharp eyes.

The tiger slipped out of bed and walked over to a square window breaking the slope of the roof. He opened it and stood unmoving for a few moments. The air was biting and rushed in through the small opening, swirling about him as he stayed unblinking. With a swift movement, he finally climbed out of the room and onto the tile roof, defying in a worn T-shirt the Parisian morning air. He settled down and stared at the city stirring below his bare feet .

The City of Lights was slowly losing its name as dawn tore the veil of night apart. The constellations of streetlights and shop signs were fading fast, aling with the real ones. The tiger raised his head. A myriad of friendly, reassuringly familair winks of silver gazed back at him. A clam smile brushed his sideburns apart. He remained there, as if unaffected by the cold, unshivering in his boxers and T-shirt and gazing at the sky, until a faraway bell struck five times. At this sound, the tiger swiftly regained his small room and closed the window.

When he left his little flat ten minutes later, the tiger was tamed. His wil mane had been captured with a black velvet ribbon, and i twas now obediently swaying about his shoulders in an impeccable catogan. He was wearing an urban Armor of gray and back. His eyes held no trace of weariness, and their unwavering gaze was that of an imperturbable and cool predator surveying his territory.

The tiger stealthily descended the stairs to the street and stepped outside. He took a moment as if to feel the brisk air, and with a swift pace headed out in the stirring city. He passed awakening shops, small grey houses whose dors yawned to let children, workers or dogs pass through. He passed fading lamp-posts, sometimes feeling as if their light faded at the arrival of s footsteps. He passed drunks, alone or in groups, looking lost in the growing clarity, staggering their way back o a home, maybe to a reproacheful companion.

The tiger passed, never stopping, houses, streets, blocks. His pace was always equal. The pement seemed to ring with warning as his heels clicked powerfully against it. It was at the sight of one shop, whose door did not yawn and whose windows did not blink with arm light, that Javert’s steps halted.

The cheerfully painted frontage represented bread. Every kind of bread thinkable of was there, in a dance of golden-brown baguettes, wreaths, buns and so on. Framed by this appetizing fresco were written, in charmingly old-fashioned cursive, the words « Bonne Fournée ». The man scoffed.  
« Where did he even find that… »

He stared at the shop for a few moments. Sometimes, he leaned forward tentatively. But he always frowned and stepped back, his grey eyes glistening with half-hearted restraint. Finally, the tiger turned away and continued his route. (His catogan flicked two or three times more before Bonne Fournée was out of sight.)

The city had nearly lost the golden colors of dawn when he arrived in front of a small shop with deep blue shutters. Pushing the door open, he heard the familiar silver chime of a small bell. The shop was dark and held the peculiar warmth of a room full of dust and books. As he stepped cautiously between the novel-strewn, unpractically narrow alleys, the tiger was violently hit in the back and nearly scattered the complete Works of Robespierre on the creaky floorboards. 

« Hello there, Javert ! » cried out a cheerful voice.  
« Encore toi, Bahorel ? »  
Javert grumbled and stood up, brushing dust off his coat. « You should be careful, Young man. One day I might use my old reflexes… I don’t want my colleague to get hurt, et encore moins par moi. »  
« No worries ! I’m strong enough to survive an attack from you, vieil homme. »  
« Don’t call me old man, gamin. Call me Javert. »  
« Don’t call me gamin, old man. Call me Bahorel. »

The older man snarled and went over to the closed Windows. As he opened the velvety-blue shutters, morning light revealed fine silver lines spidering across the wood. Constellations, that Javert contemplated with a small, proud smile before returning in the sea of dust and books. 

« Hé, Javert, if you like stars so much, why don’t you get yourself a telescope or something ? »  
The tiger sighed. « I don’t have enough money for that, jeune homme. Get us more customers and once I’ll have paid off my debts for the shop, I might try to save for my hobbies. »  
« Aw, that’s too bad… You’re always so grumpy. Hey, I can lend you some money if you want, mes vieux m’en envoient pas mal ! Seeing a smile on that hairy, stiff face of yours might attract more people here and make the shop look less dreary. »  
Javert grunted. « Why do you always have to tease me ? You youngsters have no respect for your elders nowadays… Merde, I’m speaking like an old man. Anyways, your offer is very kind, but no thank you, Bahorel. I hate having debts towards people, especially people I appreciate. »

The younger man raised his thick eyebrows in mocking perplexity. « Tu vas me faire pleurer, Javert. You’re looking sentimental… What are you, in love ? You’re reminding me of an old friend of mine. Hey, you two could make a nice match by the w-  
« Tsk. Let’s get to work. »


	4. Loving/Aimer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have a little flash-back explaining how it all started!

Javert worked full-time in this small bookshop since he had left the police forces. However, being attached to his former field of work, he had chosen to spend his days dusting, selling and generally living in the midst of law books. The shop had no name, but displayed on its front the phrase « La Justice est aveugle, mais elle n’est pas analphabète ».

The rather austere man had for company in this specialized shop the law student and part-timer Bahorel, a few clients, most of which regulars, and the hidden silver constellations drawn a little bit everywhere around the two roms. Apart from thèse, Javert had no friends, no family or anyone he could consider as dear to him, and seemed to manage well enough without them.

It was a few weeks earlier that the tiger had started to wish for a change there.

Javert was used to walking the same path every day to work, and did not plan on changing that habit. However, when a slyly placed road rénovation project barred a street he usually took, the bookseller had to change his route.

He had carefully chosen his new and originally temporary path, helped by his perfect knowledge of the Parisian labyrinth. When he had taken it for the first time, nothing was supposed to go wrong and Javert had walked with no problems up to a small plaza that looked out of time, with old-fashioned, rounded irregular pavement and ancient lamp posts.

In the middle of the plaza, a glow of light had attracted his attention. At first having continued his walk, a series of suspicious noises had pushed the former inspector to sneak in a narrow alleyway and try to discover what foul business could have been going on.

Javert had set his eyes on a dimly lit window and had waited. But when a man had finally revealed himself in the golden white glow of paper-covered lightbulbs, the tiger had recognized that he could not be a villain of any kind.

Instead of the robbery or other unlawful doings he had expected, Javert had discovered the early work of a baker, like so many others in the city. What had kept him pressed to the cold glass of the small square window, however, was the terrible charm of that man. White apron, white hair tousled in the most charming way, white neatly trimmed beard, the softest blue eyes the bookseller had ever seen and the misty halo of flour dust around him reminded Javert of some kind of angel.

Javert had smacked his forehead on the glass to cool himself down and get rid of all these ridiculous thoughts. This rash action had caused the white apparition to turn away from his dough kneading and stare perplexingly at the window.

Crouched beneath the sill, Javert had feared death of embarassment. Hiding his red face with his grey coat, he had left the alley and had run to the bookshop, still dizzy from the chain of events of the morning and a myriad of new, strange and embarassing feelings and thoughts.

And so the next days he had continued to follow this route, even after the reopening of the closed street he used to walk in, hoping each morning to catch a glimpse of the wonderful baker in white. Javert, completely unused to these feelings of attraction and fascination, did not dare go up and speak to the man. His timidity and fear of the unknown resulted into this rather suspicious behiavor of his, that Valjean had eventually ended up remarking.

Javert’s colleague Bahorel had also sensed that the older man had changed. Knowing him well, the student knew that he wouldn’t be easily questioned. He decided instead to observe his actions, behavior and mood. After a few weeks of study of the « old man »’s ways and doings, Bahorel had come up to an improbable but evident conclusion :

Javert was in love. Javert was in love, and the part-timer was determinated to find out of whom and to make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm things are starting to move… I wonder if I should do a chapter in Bahorel's POV. Anyways, you'll meet some new Amis soon enough ;)


	5. Requesting/Requêter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean receives a visit... But not the one he was expecting.

A batch of sunflower seed wreaths went into the oven, along with a sigh from Valjean. It had been a week since the strange visitor had been seen around the shop. Did he enjoy games? Surprising people by appearing when they did not expect him, and never showing up when they did?

The baker passed his flour-dusted hand through his hair, looking at a blank space on the working table. He had prepared everything for a lesson and his student was refusing to show up. Gazing up at the square window, he sighed again. A week since it had not been obstructed by the sharply cut face. A week since he has not glimpsed the rich sideburns. A week since he had gazed into steel-grey when expecting soft cold blue. But today the sky was not of blue but of grey, of the visitor's eyes… As if his thoughts had tinted it.

-Papa, stop dreaming. Il y a quelqu'un pour toi ici.  
Jean jerked up his head, his blue irises alit with hope. He dusted his hair and clothes and walked with a brisk pace to the counter, smiling from ear to ear. So he had come after all! 

Valjean's radiant smile faded when he recognized the broad frame and grin of Bahorel.

-Eh bien, vieil homme? You don't look very happy to see me! Too bad, because I have something in store for you. Something that, he paused dramatically, something that your natural temperament of bonne poire couldn't possibly say no to.  
-Amaze me, Bahorel, said Valjean, regaining a little of his smile with amusement at the young man's petulant speech.  
-Well, I have a friend of mine, a work colleague, that's been behaving strangely lately. You know me, as the fouineur I am, I had to find out what the matter was. As peculiar as it seemed -you don't know him, but still-, I had to come up to the evidence that the old grump is lovesick. I mean, he's been acting like a midinette. You should see him…! But I'm going off-track here. The point is, vieil homme, that I've come to you because you sell happiness in your bread. Could I have a little baked joy to bring to the sideburned princess up in the tower of the bookstore? I could pay you, of course…  
-Sideburned? interrupted Jean.  
-Well, oui, it turns out that the poor man has this type of pilosité faciale. Why? Do you have a secret and terrible aversion for sideburns?

Valjean wondered while Bahorel went about in his joking rambles. What a strange coincidence -it had to be a coincidence- that his client and friend's lovelorn colleague bore this same feature as the missing stranger's! it couldn't possibly be the same man… Or at least the baker didn't want to want, due to a peculiar caprice of his mind that secretly and subconsciously feared a possible deception.

-Hé, monsieur Jean?  
Valjean blinked, brought back from his thoughts by Bahorel's deep voice. The student was laughingly examinating the baker's face and playing with the ribbon of a bag of cakes.

-Oh, pardon… I was just, well, thinking about someone.  
-What's up with all of you, really? Does springtime come in December for old men? scoffed Bahorel.  
-Don't start to think I'm like your lovesick friend, jeune impertinent!  
-Well, on the other hand, it's good news after all… It's true that Cosette really ought to have another parent than her old father…  
-What did I just tell you?  
-Alright, alright, I'll stop…

The tall young man finally put the cake bag down, much to Valjean's relief, the sounds of crystal paper starting to seriously get on his nerves. He leaned down on the polished wood table, grinning from ear to ear in a confidential, laid back way.  
-Revenons à nos moutons… So, qu'en dis-tu, monsieur Jean? Will you help me bring back a smile on the poor man's face?  
-I'll help.  
Valjean himself shared Bahorel's surprised look at the sound of the answer, direct and loud.  
-Wow, you do seem motivated!  
-Well, you know me… I always like helping people and giving out things. If I didn't, you'd probably go to another bakery.  
-True enough. Well, prepare anything you want, I'll be back tomorrow! Oh, and for the money…  
-It's for free.  
-Ha! What should I have expected? Au revoir, Valjean, et mille mercis!

Valjean remained alone, the tinkle of the doorbell still echoing faintly in a dying silvery trickle. This was a strange story, all of this. And why was he so determined to help? Was it because of the simple physical resemblance with his mysterious visitor?  
This tiger was decidedly constantly roaming in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the others because there wasn't a lot of possibilities for me to go on and on in long descriptions (whether you like it or not, hehe).  
> Things are starting to really move along now, but the characters aren't aware of it, except Bahorel maybe!


	6. Brooding/Penser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean spends the evening working on Bahorel's strange order, and has a discussion with his confused and teasing daughter.

Cosette was used to seeing her papa work late, but this time seemed to surpass all others. As she peered into the flat's kitchen, a breeze of sweetness brushed past her nostrils. Valjean was turning his back to his daughter, surrounded by glass jars full of various ingredients that glistened in the yellow light. The baker looked like an ancient alchemist searching for recipes with mystical results.

-Baking à cette heure, Papa?  
-Comme tu vois. There's an order I have to work on…  
-I see. But you know, you should try and get some rest… Is this order so important that you have to sacrifice your health for it?  
Valjean chuckled.  
-You know very well that for you, no order can be important enough for me to overwork myself.  
-Hm, t'as pas tort. But i can't force you to bed, drag you or anything…  
-Don't worry about me. 

Cosette tiptoed into the kitchen, light feet flying to aid contact with the cold tiles of the floor. She studied the ingredients and notes laid out around her father, a smile on her face.  
-You've got me interested now. If you tell me what this order's about, Papa, maybe i'll forgive your neglecting of your health… So, what's the story?  
-Well, Bahorel asked me to make something for a colleague of his that's apparently lovesick. It sounds strange, doesn't it? The strangest thing being that he thinks that bread or cake could cure it, of course…

The young girl smiled and picked a handful of almonds from a jar to nibble on.  
-Shows what great esteem he has of your work! Bonne nouvelle.  
Her deep, celestial blue eyes shone with mischief.  
-But tell me more about this lovesick colleague… That sounds like a fairytale.

She giggled and continued her enthusiastic babbling, mouth full of almonds.  
-Like "Peau d'Ane"! Yes, it sounds like "Peau d'Ane". Say, Papa, will you drop a ring in the batter? They'll search for the lovely baker that lost it and you'll fall in love…  
-Don't dream too much, ma fille, grumbled Valjean with a sprinkle of laughter in his voice. Who'd fall in love with an old lonely baker like me?

But Cosette didn't seem to listen and twirled around her father mockingly, sprinkling sugar on his already sugar-white hair.  
-"Ils vécurent heureux et eurent beaucoup d'enfants…" Ah, non! Ca ne va pas. I don't want too much pesky siblings. Being the only child suits me better after all… I like being spoiled by you, mon petit Papa.

She turned to him suddenly. Her smiling eyes had lost some of their mischievous sparkle to gain a little of the gravity that Valjean remembered from years ago. A serious gaze looming from the white-blue pools of a little girl's eyes, a gaze that should have belonged to someone years older.  
-But, Papa, I want you to be happy. It'd be so nice if you met someone for you… You're such a lonely man! I'm sure your white beard and your sweetness can be loved, maybe they're loved right now, you just don't know about it. You're as sweet and warm as the things you bake, she said with a fond smile as she ruffled the baker's hair, raising a fine cloud of icing sugar. You ought to be appreciated as well as them.

Before Valjean had the time to ask if she was hinting that he had the same emotional status as bread, Cosette kissed his brow and flew away, as the lark she was, back to her room, whispering to him:  
-Don't be too late to go to sleep or I'll close the bakery tomorrow… You'll tell me more about the fairytale when you can! Bonne nuit, Papa.

Left alone in the kitchen, Jean looked around him, at the almonds and icing sugar his daughter had left out of their respective jars. His concentrated frown soon relaxed into a content smile. An idea had finally started to grow the way he wanted to, like a vine of creativity and inspiration held together by the firm pillar of his knowledge, and thriving in the rich soil of his mind. He took out a notebook and a pen, and started writing down in a close, nervous script, stopping sometimes to whip out a hand at the various jars and taste some of their content.

The next morning, Cosette drowsily staggered up to the kitchen. She mechanically went to the cupboards to prepare her daily tea and stumbled upon an unexpected obstacle.

Valjean was lying slumped over the table. His sleeping face rested on the sheets of paper strewn across the marble surface. The young girl sighed with resignation and delicately extracted a page covered with writing from under the baker's limp head. She immediately recognized the form of a recipe. However, the instructions and lists were sometimes interrupted by peculiar notes. Questions were also jotted down on the crumpled, tired pages.

"What do they like?"  
"What do they look like?"  
"Who are they so in love with?"  
"What does their lover look like?"  
"Any evocating scents, feelings?"  
"What does romantic love feel like?"

Cosette smiled at this and borrowed pencil and paper to write a few lines that she put in her pocket. She left a second note for her father, whom she left sleeping after having cleaned the kitchen and put the glass jars back in place. When Valjean woke up a few hours later, the sun was already high in the sky and Cosette read and gone for long. He could only read powerlessly his daughter's note.

"Papa, when you'll wake up I'll be away. As I said yesterday night, since you obviously didn't go to bed, I'm off to close the shop. Don't try to go there, I won't let you in and took your own key for more security. Please take the day off to rest and maybe work on that order of yours. I left you some breakfast!  
Bises, Cosette.  
P.S. If Bahorel stops by I'll let him know about your progress on the job, don't worry!"

Valjean had a smile and a sigh, shook his white head and sleepily got ready for the already well-advanced day.

At that very moment, Cosette was sweeping the shop's floor when she heard a light but firm tap on the door. She turned around.

-Pardon, Monsieur, on est fermé.  
-Excuse me, Mademoiselle… I was looking for the baker who is usually there. He should be expecting me, perhaps.  
-He's not there… He's resting. At home. WHat do you want from him? Can I be of any help to you?  
-i'm sorry, I have to see him in person… It's not very important, I guess. Merci, Mademoiselle, au revoir.

Javert turned his back to a confused Cosette and left in his usual long energetic stride. He played mechanically with his catogan, and his grey eyes shone with unusual nervousness.


	7. Returning/Revenir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert returns to the bakery and finally has a real conversation with Valjean.

Javert had not had much sleep for a week. He spent his nights desperately trying to understand himself and unknowingly terribly missing the white-haired baker. He felt a strange mixture of shame and timidity that kept his proud self from showing up at Bonne Fournée. Bahorel, at first painfully incomprehensive of his colleague's situation, could not do much but gently tease him to get some rest instead of coming to the bookstore every day, and every day looking more grim and worn-out.

After a week or so of thinking and pining, Javert had decided to come back to the bakery. Staying away like this could not bring anything good, he had told himself. And the man had to be expecting him. It wasn't polite to make him wait.

Giving himself a list of reasons to do his conscience good, he had prepared himself to leave. All the way he had nervously rearranged his sky-blue catogan and cleared his voice. Some passerby heard him muttering the same words over and over, often stumbling before the end of a sentence and cursing under his breath.

But those efforts, gigantic and terrifying for Javert, had been of no use. Instead of his baker, he had met a plump young woman who apparently did not seem to expect himn or even look in the least pleased by his presence. After a short conversation which had appeared to last an eternity, he had come back and gone to work, sad and terribly concerned for the baker's health.

Even though some negative thoughts in his mind kept whispering to him that he wasn't waited for anymore at Bonne Fournée, the mad scenarios he couldn't keep from building on Valjean's situation motivated him to come back the very next day.

His usually impeccable hair spoke for him. Though he had kept his sky-blue ribbon, a chestnut strand escaped its grasp and the bookseller nervously entwined it again and again on his fingers. He hid his sideburns and twitching mouth behind a large night-sky scarf. It was a very cold day. Wisps of smoke came out in scattered flutters with his short breaths as Javert arrived in front of the shop.

The first thing he did was to hesitate. Was it better to directly come in, as he had done the other day, or to greet from the window? The possibility of coming across the passive-aggressively fierce girl made him shudder. How would he greet the baker? Would complimenting him on his looks be too strange a behavior? Asking about his health, maybe? The second thing he did was to smack himself for asking himself such idiotic questions. He took a deep breath and marched into the small street that trickled beside the back of the shop.

The yellow light and warm scent of bread had something appeasing for Javert. he even found himself to smile as he posted himself under the small, familiar window. On the tip of his feet, he hoisted his face in its frame and looked into the room.

He immediately fell under the blue gaze of Valjean.

Falling back in surprise, he nearly lost balance and disappeared an instant from the window and the baker's sight. An amused voice led him to slowly rise up again:  
-Eh bin, Monsieur! Looks like the tables have turned. It's the first time that I am not the one to be startled here.  
-You were expecting me?, wondered aloud a bemused Javert.  
-Not really. But let us say that I would not have been surprised of your visit-  
-I was worried, blurted out the bookseller. Are you doing well?

Valjean raised his thick snowy eyebrows in a fond smile that made the other man internally melt.  
-Vous fêtes trop bon, Monsieur. It's a wonderful surprise to heur you lorry about my health… Strange thing, though. It is because she worried about the same thing too much that my daughter locked me up yesterday!  
He began to laugh. Javert, on the contrary, had furrowed his brows into a very serious frown that Bahorel had the habit of calling "the Police Pout".

-She locked you up? Sequestration is illegal, Monsieur. That the culprit is a relative does not change anything. If you have any complaints to make, please do. I will do everything in my duty to help you and make sure that justice is done.   
Valjean stayed in awe for a moment. His face then started to reflect hilarious disbelief and he doubled with laughter.  
-Vous n'êtes pas sérieux, je suppose, he managed to hiccup between two peals of uncontrollable chuckles.  
-Of course I am!, answered an indignated Javert.

Valjean was hunched over from laughing too hard. In his hilarity, he tapped with his large hand on the work table, raising a cloud of flour. This sight was strangely ravishing to Javert, who observed the scene without a word, his lawful outburst suddenly calmed. When Valjean's laughter had as well, he turned towards the other man in the window, passing an embarrassed hand through his white hair.

-I'm sorry… I slightly lost myself there. I hope you're not offended… Mon Dieu! I didn't even invite you in. Please do! We can settle down more comfortably to discuss, and it must be terribly cold outside, n'est-ce pas?  
-I… If you insist.  
Javert hurried to the front door and joined the baker in the sweet-smelling workshop. He was greeted with another warm smile and a rather floury and rickety wooden chair offered by his host, who apologized to have nothing better. Javert did not admit that to him, nothing could have surpassed this.

He gazes around him, all senses alert. The bare room, with its bare plaster walls and brick-paved floor, had a peculiar and wonderful atmosphere of warmth and security about it. The low hum of ovens running, the yellow light that brought soft shadows to the walls, the scent of baking goods, and the smiling guardian of this haven of hospitality, all contributed to the place's aura. The bookseller thought that he never wanted to leave this room.

Without realizing it, Javert had been so absorbed in feeling the bakery's atmosphere that a silence had built itself and surrounded the two men, like a veil of awkwardness. Valjean was looking at him with an amused twinkle in his eyes. He slightly coughed and the bookseller got out of his daze with a blush.

-So… Comment allez-vous? murmured Javert.  
-I am well.  
-You do look very energetic.  
At these words, Valjean placed an apologetic paw on the other furiously blushing man's shoulder.  
-Sorry again for earlier… You really seem to take your job seriously. I didn't know.  
-Oh! There's no problem at all, Monsieur. Besides, it's not my actual job anymore.  
-So you worked in the law business?  
-Not really. Well, I used to be an Inspector, pour tout vous dire, declared Javert, unusually chatty.  
-And now? What do you work in?  
-I took over a bookshop. Law books, he precised with a grin. We have more debts to pay off than clients, but it's quiet. Relaxing.  
-That sounds nice, smiled Valjean. Maybe I should come and visit you one day…

Javert leaped up, shaking his head furiously.  
-Ne fiats pas ça! It's dusty and dark and messy, not a place for someone like you-  
-Someone like me?  
Valjean beamed and bowed laughingly;  
-Thank you, Monsieur, pour ce merveilleux compliment.  
He patted Javert's back softly to get him to sit once again. His smile had not faltered, but there was a questioning light in his eyes. He murmured, half to himself:  
-What do you all have, with your flattery? I am a man like any other.

The other man looked back at him. All timidity seemed to have gone from his gaze and voice.  
-That is a grave mistake, Monsieur. You are not an ordinary man. You are extraordinary. Kind, and cheerful, and your bakery is lovely, at your image if I may, and your hair is the purest white and looks very soft, and-  
He was interrupted by the rude alarm of an oven that had decided to loudly manifest the birth of a fresh batch at this very moment. This gave Javert the opportunity to realize that what he had just said he never had before. He was hesitating between judging his action as brave or perfectly stupid, and finally decided that in any case, retreat was the best possible way.

-Um. I'm sorry. I think I should go now.  
He mechanically straightened his catogan ribbon and rearranged his coat collar. Going back outside would be cold, he thought.  
-Please stay.  
Valjean's large hand on his shoulder kept him firmly seated.  
-But I really shouldn't-  
-You should, at least, tell me your name, Monsieur.  
These kindly authoritative words made him realize that, indeed he had never given his name to the baker. He looked up and answered.  
-Javert. It's Javert.

Valjean smiled and lifted his grip from Javert's shoulder. He hurried away, and came back with a prettily woven but very floury basket. In it were nestled a dozen of buns with a golden smell. The basket was presented to the bookseller who shyly helped himself to one of the crispy spheres. He took a bite and was immediately flooded by a cheerful warmth. Simple, rustic and delightful, he thought, and looked up again with a discreet smile at the proud baker, unconscious of his resemblance to his work. Said baker took his hand to shake it.  
-Quand à moi, my name is Valjean, Monsieur Javert. At your service.  
Monsieur Javert had decidedly thrown away any idea of leaving. Valjean grinned. He went to open a wooden closet door and threw a white bundle of fabric at his unexpecting guest. Javert opened it and discovered that it was, in fact, no bundle at all. It was a cotton apron. The voice of the baker rose to confirm his guesses.  
-Well, qu'en pensez-vous? You wanted a leçon for such a long time. Shall we get started?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this chapter took so long to finish! Good side of it is, it's longer than the previous ones. I'm trying to get things to get moving so that the fic will end in less than 10 chapters ^^' I have the feeling that this one is less nicely written that the others, though?  
> As usual, if there are any grammatical errors, some weird French-syntax inspired stuff, or parts in French you don't understand, please tell me so!  
> I have my scenario pretty much already in place for the next chapters, I hope it doesn't look too confusing.


End file.
